


the yellow room

by ohhotlamb



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Drinking, Future Fic, Guilt, M/M, Pining, Post-Break Up, living with your ex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 03:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7996135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohhotlamb/pseuds/ohhotlamb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I told you, we broke up like six months ago. We’re not dating anymore.”</p><p>Hanamaki eyes him suspiciously. “You <em>live</em> together.”</p><p>“Yeah, so?”</p><p>“There are pictures of you two <em>kissing</em> stuck to your <em>refrigerator</em>.”</p><p>Hajime shrugs. “That wasn’t my idea. Anyways, they’re good pictures. Good lighting.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	the yellow room

“I told you, we broke up like six months ago. We’re not dating anymore.”

Hanamaki eyes him suspiciously. “You  _live_ together.”

“Yeah, so?”

“There are pictures of you two  _kissing_ stuck to your  _refrigerator.”_

Hajime shrugs. “That wasn’t my idea. Anyways, they’re good pictures. Good lighting.”

“Jesus, Iwaizumi, the two of you might as well be  _married,_ and you’re tellin’ me you’re not even  _dating?”_

Hajime really doesn’t know what to say to that. He looks around the izakaya instead—it’s a warm place, pretty quiet as far as they go. That might just be because it’s still early in the evening, but it’s nice just the same. Hajime shrugs again, reaching for the plastic pitcher to refill his glass of beer. “We both wanted different things. We work better together as just friends.”

“Both wanted different things,” Hanamaki echoes. “And what would that be? Oikawa wanted the white curtains and you wanted the blue?”

“Oh, fuck off.” Hajime licks the strip of foam from his upper lip, feeling his face screw up into something dangerously close to a scowl. “I needed to focus on getting into graduate school, and with Oikawa going pro he won’t be able to stay in one place for too long. It’s better for us both that we broke up sooner rather than later. It was bound to happen eventually.”

Hanamaki groans, reaching for his own glass. “I can’t believe that you actually believe the garbage coming out of your mouth. Do you  _see_ the way he looks at you? Like the second coming of Christ, Iwaizumi. He looks at you the way I look at creampuffs.”

Hajime rolls his eyes. “He does  _not._ He looks at me the way he always has.”

“Case in point.”

“Fuck off,” Hajime repeats, mildly. And then, as if as an after-thought:  “He has a girlfriend now, anyways.”

Hanamaki spits up a little of his beer, a foamy stream dribbling down his chin. His eyes are impossibly wide. “You’re shitting me.”

Hajime clenches his fist on the table top, his ears getting hot. “Fuckin’—no, I’m not. I told you, he doesn’t feel that way about me anymore. And the feeling’s mutual.”

“You’re telling me,” Hanamaki whispers. “There is a girl somewhere in this world, dating Oikawa, who is forced to look at pictures of you two sucking face every time she comes over to your apartment. With her own two eyes. Please tell me this isn’t so.”

Hajime leans back in his booth seat, scowling full-force now and refusing to avert his eyes. That would show weakness, and if there’s one thing he knows about predators from nature documentaries, it’s that you can’t let them smell fear. “She knows how it is—that it’s not like that anymore. She’s actually pretty cool, as far as Oikawa’s girlfriends go. She’s smart and not clingy. It’s a nice change of pace.” At Hanamaki’s continuous skeptical look, he stands quickly from his seat. “Stay here, I’m gonna go get some food.”

The few minutes waiting for the staff to bring out the order Hajime uses to cool off and calm himself down. He’s been friends with Hanamaki bordering on eight years now, and the guy’s gotten remarkably good at wedging himself under Hajime’s skin, like a splinter underneath a thumbnail and twice as stubborn to get rid of. He’s just thankful Matsukawa is taking the evening to bother Oikawa—god knows what he’d do if he had the  _both_ of them ganging up on him. Lying through his teeth like this is exhausting enough as it is. 

The break loitering by the kitchen doors does him good, and by the time the server hands the food off to him he’s feeling remarkably more in control. But he’s barely slid back into his seat before Hanamaki pounces again, reaching for the plate of fried chickenas he does. “If she’s so smart then why the _fuck_ hasn’t she dumped him already? Jesus, this is  _painful._ Hey, what’s her number? I need to stage an intervention.”

“Shut up, Makki. She’s not a kid. She’s good for him.”

“And you weren’t?”

Hajime shrugs. Hanamaki glowers.

“You know, you’re making this ‘catching up’ thing a lot less fun than I thought it was going to be,” Hajime remarks, raising his glass to his lips for another sip. He frowns when Hanamaki snorts.

“Sorry for trying to help my friends who are so deeply buried in denial they can’t see the sun anymore.”

Hajime picks out a piece of chicken, ripping into the crispy top layer and nearly burning his tongue on the soft flesh underneath. After swallowing, he reaches over to the edge of the table to grab a fistful of napkins. He wipes at his greasy mouth.  “I’m not unhappy, Makki. Besides, it’s not like it’s a one-sided thing. I’ve moved on, too.” It comes out a little thick and awkward, and he prays that it's not noticeable.

Hanamaki raises a disbelieving eyebrow. He’s been doing that an awful lot. “Really.”

“Really.”

“When I came to pick you up, you know what I saw?” He leans forward. “ _Creampuffs,_ Iwaizumi. Or at least in your case that nasty tofu shit.”

“I repeat:  _fuck off,_ or I’m outta here.”

Hanamaki raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Fine, fine, I’ll stay quiet. But I guarantee you Oikawa’s gettin’ the same spiel from Issei right now.”

“And I’m sure he’s tellin’ Mattsun exactly what I’ve told you—to get your abnormally pointy nose out of our business.”

“Excuse you asshole, my nose is adorable.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t. Just pointy.”

“ _Button-like._ A beautiful, completely normal button.”

“Pinocchio.”

“Sonic the fuckin’ Hedgehog.”

Hajime snorts, and he grins into his glass. Hanamaki reaches over and digs through the chicken for the crispiest piece.

“I do this because I care about you two, you know.”

“I know.”

“And I think I’m right. So I want you to give it some thought.”

“Yes, mother dearest.”

“I know  _I_  sure as hell didn’t raise you to be such a smartass.”

 

 

 ******

 

 

“Hey, Suzu.”

Suzu swivels her neck to look at him over the back of the couch, an amiable smile immediately erupting over her face. Hajime knows without looking that there’s a novel sitting warmly in her lap. “Afternoon, Iwaizumi-kun.”

There’s a rosy beer-induced flush to Hajime’s cheeks, enough to make his insides feel a little soupy but not enough to where he has to focus on keeping his feet moving in a straight line. He feels pretty good, despite the rocky conversation with Hanamaki and coming home from said conversation to find Oikawa’s girlfriend reading in his living room, yet no Oikawa.

He dumps his keys into the dish by the door, bending to take off his shoes and line them up by the others. He’s pleased by how little effort it takes to keep his balance. His tolerance must be getting better. “Oikawa home yet?”

“He should be just in the—"

As if waiting for his cue offstage, Oikawa chooses that moment to come skidding out of the hallway, sliding a bit on the wood in his socks. He catches himself on the edge of the couch, draping himself over it dramatically and pressing a dainty hand to his forehead, swooning. “Iwa-chan! My knight! You’ve come to rescue me from terrible dragon keeping me hostage! I haven’t seen the light of day in two—no, three—years!”

Hajime ignores him and heads straight for the kitchen, unzipping his jacket as he goes and calling over to Suzu, “I’d be more than happy to smack this shitstain for you. Just say the word.”

She smiles again. “Why don’t we let him off with a warning this time? Doesn’t that sound fair, Tooru?”

Oikawa rushes over to her at once, cupping both her hands in his. “Oh, my love, you know I’m only kidding. You’re a very beautiful dragon.”

She rolls her eyes. “You flatter me. Really.”

“Oikawa,” Hajime calls over, doing his best to completely block out the sickening cooing noises floating over from the couch as he roots through the refrigerator. “Do we need anything from the store? We got milk, right? I think Makki and Mattsun wanted to spend the night tomorrow, and Mattsun’s always gotta have his gross-ass bran cereal in the morning.” They're missing a few key ingredients necessary for a big and hearty hotpot tomorrow night, and he wanted to pick up a few bags of snack food and, if he’s feeling charitable, a box of creampuffs for Hanamaki and some Skittles for Matsukawa.

Oikawa bounds over, peeking into the refrigerator from behind Hajime’s shoulder. He hums, shaking his head. “I just got some on my way home, so we’re fine. But if you’re going anyways, can you do me an eensie-weensie little favor?” he leans in and lowers his voice, lips right next to Hajime's ear. “I need more condoms.”

By sheer power of will, Hajime forces his face to remain neutral, carefully constructing an expression of exasperation.  _Remember what you told Makki. You’re over it, you’re completely over it._ Who Oikawa had sex with was none of his business—not anymore. And it doesn’t bother him in the slightest. In fact, he should be glad that his best friend practiced safe sex in the first place. This was a good thing. And it doesn’t bother him. At all.

His heart is beating a sickening, pulsing rhythm somewhere behind the giant glob of regret in the back of his throat— so he might have possibly fudged the truth a little bit with Hanamaki. But if it wasn't obvious enough to cause problems ( _it_ being his gross and very-much-still-there feelings) then in his opinion, no blood, no foul. 

He shuts the door to the fridge, turning to write on the memo pad on the kitchen counter. “So, extra-small? Got it.”

“ _You_ know that’s not true.” Oikawa waggles his eyebrows suggestively. Hajime hates him a little bit for the reminder.

“You’re right, you’re right, sorry. Extra-extra-small. Garden gnome size.”

“Iwa-chan!”

Hajime writes _whiskey_ underneath _Skittles_ —after this conversation, he’s going to need something to get him through the night. “Need anything else? Body chocolate? Lube?”

“Well, now that you mention it—"

Hajime slams the pen down on the counter hard enough for the plastic to splinter. “Suzu! Need anything from the store?”

She waves over her shoulder, not looking up from her novel. “No, thank you!”

“She deserves better,” Hajime tells him.

Oikawa pouts. “That’s cold.”

“It’s the truth. Now, I’m gonna take a nap, and then I’ll go to the grocery store to pick up what we need. If you wake me up for any reason, you die. Got it?”

Oikawa leans against the counter, a delighted smile on his face. “Wow, look at you. Someone put too much macho in their coffee this morning.”

Hajime stalks away towards his bedroom, ignoring how his stomach twists. “Whatever.”

Oikawa calls after him. “Goodnight, sweet prince!”

“Go choke.”

 

 ******

 

 

“So is there a difference between a zucchini and a zucchini _squash?_ These are the things I need to know!” Oikawa is yelling, eyes glassy and cheeks red with the effects of one too many—his smile is lethargic and his weight is heavy, leaning bodily into Hajime’s shoulder. Hajime lets him, only because it’s game night and no one can really be blamed for their actions on game night. They’re playing Uno, and the four of them are crowded around the small table in Oikawa and Hajime’s apartment. But as far as Hajime is concerned, for the next hour none of them are his friends. Hanamaki’s already tackled Oikawa to the ground in a fit of Draw-4 induced rage, and Matsukawa looks like he’s one card away from just throwing his hand out the window and calling it quits.

Oikawa’s only got three cards left, and in a rush of drunk arrogance he has started asking stupid, meaningless questions at the top of his lungs in a pathetic attempt at further distracting the competition. Hajime, being Hajime, refuses to lose, and is also not above playing dirty. His chosen tactic to complete Uno domination: provoking emotional instability. And Oikawa, annoying and cocky and in first place as he is, needs to be the first to go.

“Fun fact: Did you know Oikawa wasn’t always the mildly attractive guy you see before you today?”

Hajime’s still nursing his first red cup, a mad scientist concoction that Hanamaki had made while crouched behind the kitchen counter, laughing maniacally. Its contents are unknown. There is, however, a cluster of Mattsun’s Skittles dissolving at the bottom.

“Mildly attractive?” Oikawa echoes indignantly at the same time the other two chorus, “Really?”

Matsukawa and Hanamaki, who started off the night with proclaiming to have livers of steel, are working their hardest to change this fact and have sticky trails smelling of tequila dripping down their chins. Cumulatively, they have taken a total of twelve bathroom trips in the past hour and a half.

Hajime nods, grave. “Yeah. Oikawa was the ugliest baby, seriously. Like a little wrinkly troll.” This is his ultimate weapon—expansive and unnecessary knowledge of quite literally Oikawa Tooru’s entire life.

Sticky palms smack down on the low table, eyes wild and jaw dropped in outrage. “Was not!”

“He was bald until he was three.”

He has a small picture, taken in the photography studio of a department store. It’s cut out from a sheet made up of a dozen, handed out proudly by Oikawa Ai like obligatory chocolate on Valentine’s day. A toddler-aged Tooru is dressed in a sailor’s uniform, nautical hat tipped jauntily over his head, to hide the fact that it contains less hair than a naked mole rat.

Hajime keeps it in one of the folds of his wallet, and has told no one.  

He looks down to find that Oikawa has sprawled across his lap, reaching with his fruit-smelling fingers to pinch Hajime’s lips shut. “Stop! Telling people! Unnecessary things!” His voice is reedy and laced with crocodile tears—he can’t quite hide his smile, however, wiggling and dragging dirty fingers all over Hajime’s face. A part of Hajime wonders—does he know? Does he realize that he’s acting like nothing’s changed, personal bubble be damned? Does he realize how much this _hurts?_  But Hajime lets him, only because it’s game night and no one can really be blamed for their actions on game night.

(Oikawa’s weight is heavy across Hajime’s thighs, and his fingers instinctively twitch to bury themselves in thick brown hair.)

Matsukawa has mostly given up by now and has turned to popping Skittles like it’s the only thing keeping him going. His head has dropped to Hanamaki’s shoulder, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes quiet and observing, his mouth still pursed bitterly over the impressive stack of cards he’s piled up. Hanamaki’s expression is unmistakably sad. His thumb and forefinger pinch between candies, bringing them steadily up to Matsukawa’s lips like a mother bird feeding her chick. Red, green, blue, yellow—

Hajime doesn’t quite understand why they’re looking at him like that. He reaches for his red cup, drinking until candy clicks against his teeth. Oikawa’s fingertips have taken to stroking over this throat, pressing each time he swallows like he wants to make him choke.

All of a sudden, game night isn’t feeling so fun.

When Hajime looks down at his lap, Oikawa is still staring up at him, but he isn’t smiling.

 

 

******

 

 

Hajime stands out on the balcony, letting the icy air rip into his lungs and leave his lips cracking and dry. He huddles the best he can into his thin sweater, rubbing his palms together and hoping the night breeze can sweep the unbearable, aching heat from his chest. He takes a moment to look at the time on his phone: 2:31 AM. Tokyo’s residential areas aren’t known for being noisy at night, but this area is close to their university—he can hear kids shouting to each other, the distant thrum of music.

He wishes, impulsively, to join them. Anything to get him away. Anything to help him feel okay again. 

The glass door behind him slides open, and he braces himself, pulling his arms closer to his chest. To his relief, he voice is familiar, but not so familiar that it rips into him, sweetly. “Iwaizumi, Makki and I are gonna hit the sack.” It’s Matsukawa, his speech overly careful to avoid slurring. Without turning, Hajime can see his dark shadow on the concrete beside his feet.

“Mmm. 's that futon gonna be big enough?”

Matsukawa walks closer, joining him and leaning his arms against the iron railing. He exhales, breath clouding like the cigarette smoke that clings to his clothes. “Yeah, it’ll be fine.”

Hajime looks out at the twinkling lights in the distance, the yellow-orange glow of the streetlamps in front of the apartments across the street. “Okay. Just let me know if you want more pillows or blankets or anything.”

“Sure. Thanks, Iwaizumi.” The dark, curled hair above Matsukawa’s eyes ruffle in the winter breeze, and Hajime glances down when he feels those eyes on his face—reluctantly, he meets them. They are sad, like Hanamaki’s had been sad.

“I don’t think I have to tell you what you already know.” He’s being gentle, more so than Hanamaki had been the day before. But it still leaves Hajime reeling a bit, like a punch straight to his gut.

He doesn’t reply, turning his gaze forward once more, and Matsukawa joins him in turning to look out at the city.

“I’m not saying this because he’s taken or because you live together or anything like that. I’m saying it because you’re hurting, and I don’t think that’s right. You don’t deserve to be in pain like this.” Matsukawa’s hand has wrapped around Hajime’s forearm, a touch of comfort to accompany the stabbing of his words.

“I’m not in pain.”

“Iwaizumi, I’ve never seen somebody look so sad outside of a funeral. You’re miserable.”

In the distance, one of the party-goers lets out a bellowing yell, like they’re hoping to split the moon right open with the force of it. Hajime’s fingers curl into fists, his teeth clenching. “Mattsun,” he says. He can’t think of anything else to say.

The hand on his arm moves to pat him on the back, between his shoulder blades. “I love ya, Iwaizumi. You and Oikawa both—you’re my and Makki’s best friends. But this isn’t something you can just ignore and hope it goes away. It’s killing you.”

Hajime doesn’t think he can reply without the words coming out strangled, so he chooses to stay silent again. He closes his eyes, breathing in the air that’s making his nose burn with the cold. Matsukawa steps back, his shadow retreating with him. He pauses at the glass door. 

“Goodnight, Iwaizumi. I hope you choose a path that’ll make you happy.” The door slides open, and he pauses. “Oh, and Oikawa was asking for you in the bathroom.”

And it glides shuts behind him, leaving Hajime to catch his breath, shaky.

 

 

 ******

 

 

He takes another ten minutes to clear his head as much as possible—it seems the majority of the alcohol in Hanamaki’s cocktail of doom had settled at the bottom of the cup, and is currently wreaking havoc upon Hajime’s brain. But the time outside does him good, and by then he’s ready to step back inside and deal with a soppy, worm-like husk of an Oikawa.

He steps carefully around the lumps of Hanamaki and Matsukawa tangled together in a heap on the futon in the middle of the living room, and then he’s padding down the hallway towards the crack of light shining underneath the bathroom door. He knocks, once, before opening it to the sour smell of vomit. He carefully doesn’t wrinkle his nose, because of course Oikawa would be offended by something like that.

“Oikawa.”

“Hrrrmmgghhaaaaa…”

“You idiot.”

A whimper. He’s curled up with his back against the bathtub, shaking with his cheek pressed to the floor. He looks half-dead. His eyes, unfocused, search for Hajime.

“Iwa-chan.”

“What.”

“Sleep with me.”

His heart, stupidly, twists in on itself and simultaneously causes his throat to close down hard on his windpipe. He counts, mentally, to five, to give Oikawa time to reconsider. He does, not looking at all embarrassed at his unfortunate word choice.

“I don’t feel good. I need someone to rub my back.”

“If you go the fuck to sleep then you won’t need someone to rub your back.”

Oikawa moans. “But I can’t fall asleep unless you do, and I can’t leave the toilet.”

“You have a garbage can in your room.”

“If I stand up I’ll die.”

“Good.”

Another pathetic moan, and Hajime swears, turning on his heel for his bedroom. He grabs his laptop, the charger, and all the blankets from his bed, balancing the pillows on top. Blindly making his way back to the bathroom, he dumps all the bedding onto Oikawa (“Iwa-chan, nooooo, why are you so meeeeaannnn…”) and carefully sets his laptop to balance on the closed toilet lid. He turns off the bathroom light and gives his laptop time to boot up, sitting beside Oikawa and rearranging the blankets so that they’re draped over the both of them. He sets his pillows across his lap. He pats them. “Lie down.”

Oikawa slumps immediately, his head lying in Hajime’s lap for the second time that night. Though it feels different, because Oikawa is drunk off his ass and the bathroom is dead quiet, empty save for the both of them. It’s not game night anymore, and there’s nowhere to place the blame. It’s harder to ignore how sick this all makes him feel.

Hajime’s hand moves, placed at the bottom curve of Oikawa’s back, before tenderly rubbing up to the nape of his neck, and then back down.

“We’re gonna watch a movie until you go to the fuck to sleep.”

Oikawa can’t look up at Hajime without rolling onto his back, but he tries to loll his neck enough so that he can, and Hajime firmly keeps him from doing so.

“Knock it off, you’ll make yourself nauseous.”

“What movie are we watching?” Oikawa gives up, staring at the glowing screen—Hajime reaches across Oikawa’s back so that he can type into the search bar, finding what he wants and pressing play.

“Treasure Planet.”

“Oh.” A pause. “I love that movie.”

“I know.”

Oikawa doesn’t say anything else, and Hajime’s head is screaming at him that _this is a bad idea._ They haven’t slept this close together for six months now, and he’s not entirely sure how ethically sound it would be to do so with someone he used to date, never mind the fact that it also happens to be Oikawa. Is this something Suzu would be upset about? Will Oikawa be angry about this in the morning, when he’s sober? He thinks about the conversation he had with Hanamaki, the brutal wake-up call from Matsukawa fresh on his mind—

_You’re miserable._

“You stopped rubbing my back.”

Hajime blinks, his hand having stilled at Oikawa’s waist—he starts up his rhythm again, nice and slow and gentle. “You’re on thin ice, Oikawa. Watch it.”

“Hm.” His head seems to get heavier and heavier, his skin flickering with the light from the screen, and Hajime honestly doesn’t even know what’s going on in the movie right now. There’s aliens, and a space-pirate-ship, but he’s watching the gradual lowering of Oikawa’s eyelids instead of the plot.

_You’re killing yourself._

His hands still again on Oikawa’s waist, fabric warm over feverish skin.

_Something needs to change._

Oikawa's rolled over onto his other side, breathing deeply against Hajime's stomach. His hands are curled loosely next to his face, and since he’s still only in the light stages of sleep he hasn’t started snoring yet. That’ll change later—soon, his mouth will be wide open and drooling, expressions twisting ferociously as he dreams; but for now, he looks peaceful, blissfully ignorant of the hangover he’ll have in the morning. Hajime waits, and only after he sees the flicker of Oikawa’s eyes moving behind his lids as he begins to dream does he reach out—fingers tracing along his brow, down his temple, the soft curve of his cheek. Oikawa sighs, his breath stuttering with a quick  _in-in-oooooout_ , and he burrows closer to Hajime’s stomach.  _What are you **doing,** Hajime. You’re the one who broke things off._

He tucks his hand back close to himself, heart twisting so sharply it takes his breath away.

 

 

 ******

 

 

His dream that night is of their third year in high school, just weeks from graduation. Even though they had both been nearly adults by that point, the both of them still had fatter faces, their shoulders slimmer and muscles more wire than bulk. It’s strange—he’s seeing everything play out from his own eyes, but also through the eyes of a bystander. At the neighborhood park under the huge unruly rhododendron tree, shoving at each other, Oikawa shrieking with laughter. Hajime pushing him over into the dirt, seeing how he gets a dimple in one cheek only when he’s smiling this hard—leaning over, Oikawa’s soft little  _mmph_ of surprise. Not even being able to pull away in horror at what he’d impulsively done before arms wind around his neck, effectively trapping him.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whispers, after some time. The teenaged Hajime feeling drunk, the older Hajime feeling like he can’t stand to watch for another second. But he does. Oh, he does. “I love you. I looooooove you.”

“Really?”

He nuzzles a kiss onto Hajime’s cheek, dreamy and windswept. “Mmmhmm.”

There’s a joy, a feeling so sharp he borders on delirious, and he laughs, returning the kisses he’s given and thinking, naïvely, that nothing in the world could ever take this joy away from him.

 

 

******

 

 

He had slipped to the side in his sleep, his back pressed tight against the wall of the bathtub, his front warm with the heat of another body. The morning shows him what he hadn’t seen the night before— _that_ face. Cheek smushed into Hajime’s bicep, drool sliding like a snail trail down his inner arm. Snoring, loud and rumbling like the engine of a motorcycle. He curls his lip, but still doesn’t move. His eyes are aching like he had been crying in his sleep. Maybe he had been—because of the dream? His breath catches, just watching him—seeing what he’d willingly let go. The regret fills him like an overflowing cup, and he has to look away.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Hajime whispers.

 

 

******

 

 

The thought itself had begun like the first sprout of a weed, invasive and foreign among the blooms of his most treasured garden.

_When did he become so important?_

Hajime thought this as he had looked at Oikawa, head thrown back in laughter, reaching across the university cafeteria table to shove playfully at their friend’s shoulder. He’d been glowing, too brightly for Hajime’s eyes. He’d always been like that, though. A star— too much, too luminous, its gravitational pull all-consuming.

_When did he become so irreplaceable?_

He started realizing, then, that their names were permanently intertwined. A call of _“Oh, hey, Iwaizumi!”_ was nearly always followed by a “ _Where’s Oikawa?”_  He couldn’t find the damn line. There was no point in time in which they had been separated for longer than the three weeks it took for Oikawa to be laid down in the cradle beside Hajime, the both of them sucking on their toes.

And that had been his life. For five, twelve, seventeen, twenty, _twenty-two_ years of his life, that’s how it’d been, and that’s what he’d come to expect. It’s what he grew comfortable with. Here were these two people, strung so tightly together, lives so hopelessly tangled with each other’s, that Hajime had trouble deciphering where his ended and Oikawa’s began.

_When did I become so attached?_

He had been content. Happy. Had taken the next step naturally—had gone from best friends to lovers, as easy as breathing. His feelings had been a progression that, in hindsight, was obvious. He started his life with Oikawa, and that’s the way he was going to end it.

_When did I start thinking that I couldn’t live without him?_

The weed sprouted, and grew, and started spreading. A fear that started as a prickle of unease and began nagging—it kept him wary, kept him from being quite so receptive to kisses, kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep, as Oikawa nosed at the back of his neck in the middle of the night.

_What am I gonna do if he leaves?_

The day he had pressed the knife against the taut rope, he stared, stomach cold as ice, as Oikawa fed the ducks chunks of white bread. The park was warm with spring, and the new leaves on the trees rustled.

“I think we should stop this.”

Oikawa had glanced up, bangs too long and getting in his eyes. It didn’t hide the bright whiteness of his smile, the melting way he looked up at Hajime—

“Stop what? Iwa-chan, I know the sign says not to feed the ducks but they are obviously starving and _look how cute they are—"_

“No, I mean we should stop _this._ Going on walks in the park. Doing couple things. Dating.”

The look on Oikawa’s face—it wasn’t something Hajime had ever seen before on a person. It wasn’t something he’d ever _want_ to have seen on a person, ever. Like his whole universe was imploding right before his eyes and could do nothing to stop it. The bag of bread was left on the ground, the ducks scrambling to peck at its insides as he stood from his crouch. Hajime could see that his legs were trembling. “ _Why?”_

It hadn't been something Hajime had a crystal clear answer to—after all, he didn’t have the answers himself. He didn’t know why those past few months, just _seeing_ Oikawa had made him nauseous with anxiety. He couldn’t list out, bullet-point by bullet-point, why the primary emotion he felt when he heard Oikawa’s laugh was fear.

_What if I never get to hear his laugh again?_

So he had settled for something responsible; something that even he could believe, if he told himself hard enough. “You leave for the Hokkaido tournament in five days. You’ll be gone for two weeks, and there’s gonna be more like it. I still need to find one more person to write me a letter of recommendation, so I need to put in a lot of time getting shadowing hours. I can’t put in the effort for a relationship right now. And honestly, neither can you.”

“That’s okay!” Oikawa had rushed to say, his eyes the size of dinner plates, hands half-reaching for Hajime but stopping before they touch. “We don’t have to spend a lot of time together! I mean, if I’m bothering you then we don’t need to do things like this!”

 _Stop,_ Hajime had thought, bile rising in his throat, _don’t think this is your fault._

“Oikawa, that’s not realistic and you know it. As long as we’re together, you’re always gonna wanna do stuff with me, and I don’t wanna deal with your guilt trips when I say no."

“But, Haji—"

“We can still live together,” Hajime had interrupted, knowing very well how his first name on Oikawa’s tongue did unspeakable things to his insides. “That part doesn’t have to change. We can still be friends. We don’t have to stop talking. But you need to start sleeping in your own room. And no more sex. No more kissing or hand holding or any of that stuff.”

He’d looked away, feeling a blush stain his cheeks at saying those things out loud—but more than that, the shame was so overwhelming he wished that his skin had a zipper, so that he could step out of his body and stop being _Hajime_ for a while.

He had known it was coming, but it didn't make the next part any better. He still had to bite his tongue and dig his nails into his palms when he heard the first shuddering breath; fought against each and every one of his cells, each of his trillions and trillions of atoms that  _pulled him,_ screamed at him that _Tooru is **crying,** Tooru is **sad** , why aren’t you **doing** anything, he **needs** you—_

“But I understand if you want space away from me. Or if you wanna move out. It’d only be fair.” He had scratched at the back of his head, his eyes still averted to the side, distancing himself by focusing on the park fountain, the duck feathers swirling across the concrete, the screaming of a child on the playground. Anything to distract himself, to keep himself from getting swallowed up whole.

“No,” Oikawa had said. His head bowed between his shoulders, his breaths labored and wet. “No,” he repeated, and Hajime thought for a second that was all he was going to say. Then: “I won’t move out.”

“Okay.”

There’d been a sickening, wretched relief. Because he _got to keep him._ He got to distance himself, he got to be his own person, he got to have breathing room to be the horrible, despicable Hajime— _and he got to keep Oikawa, too._ The hatred he felt for himself, impossibly, grew stronger.

And then Oikawa had turned, back hunched and face hidden, and he walked away down towards the pond.

“I’ll…I’ll see you later. Don’t wait up for me,” he said, barely audible as he didn't turn his head. He had stepped on the bag of bread and didn't seem to notice. The ducks quacked at him angrily.

“Okay.”

He didn't think Oikawa heard him.

 

******

 

 

_You don’t deserve to be in pain like this._

It feels like the breakup again, this time. It feels just the same—the same cold, sinking feeling in Hajime’s stomach. But it’s worse, because this time he knows he doesn’t get to keep him. He has to whittle away at the strings that hold them together until what little remains is threadbare. Not a clean break, not a total separation, but something that will make the pain easier to bear.

The door has been left ajar, the low hum of music just audible from inside. The room is dark, but he can see a steady white glow thrown across the opposite wall. He knocks on the frame once, with his knuckles, before pushing it open.

“Oikawa, we need to talk.”

This room—when they’d been dating, it had been little more than a storage closet for Oikawa’s things, or a place to hole himself up when he needed to focus on his studies. But besides that, it had been unlived in, the sheets of the bed rarely disturbed. Instead, he used to spend every night in Hajime’s bed, pushing his cold toes into whatever warm patch he could find, blowing raspberries into Hajime’s neck to wake him up in the morning.

But those days are long gone, and thinking of them now will only make the next few minutes harder.

“Hmm? Oh, sure thing, Iwa-chan! Let me just finish this up real quick!” He’s replying to e-mails, wearing those God-awful glasses (“They make me look cute, Iwa-chan! Cute in that nerdy, bookish sort of way, don’t you think?”), tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he focuses. His eyes are squinting because he’s staring into the bright light of his laptop in the dark, the idiot, and Hajime flips the light on before he blinds himself. Another few plucks at the keyboard and Oikawa spins around in his office chair, wide smile across his face. “Okay, what’s up?”

He’s so unassuming, so unaware of the dread that sticks to Hajime like a second skin. It makes Hajime’s stomach, which is already roiling with nerves, twist again with a fresh wave of guilt. But he’d already made his decision. 

_You’re miserable, you’re killing yourself._

He has no choice but to see it through.

(Underneath it all lies a foul undercurrent of relief, knowing that soon he won’t have to feel this way anymore.)

He takes a deep breath. “I got chosen for a paid physical therapy internship starting in January,” he says, cutting straight to the quick. He gets close, but not so close so that it bleeds, because at his words Oikawa’s face _lights up_. Hajime can already hear what he’s going to say— _"O_ _h, that’s wonderful, Iwa-chan! Who knew they’d be able to see past your Neanderthal exterior! It’s a miracle!”_  But there’s more, and he can’t let the most important part slip away in the oncoming congratulations. He barrels on, forcing it out of his throat like the words are poisonous. “It’s a full year, and it’s back in Miyagi. Back in Sendai.”

He can see when it registers—Oikawa’s eyes go round, smile slipping. “What does that mean?”

 _What does that mean for us?_  goes unspoken but obvious, and Hajime swallows, his hands clenched at his sides. He had to remind himself that he’s not really breaking up with Oikawa for the second time—but Jesus, it feels like it.

“The commute from here would be too long, not to mention it would cost an arm and a leg. So I’m gonna be staying at my folk’s place. Back home.”

“You’re moving out.” The smile is completely gone, his voice is quiet. Face closed off. Hajime hates it. He shifts on his feet awkwardly, looking away at the wall—volleyball posters, medals, and so, so many pictures, more than half just the both of them—noodles poking out of their lips when they were six, playing soccer during their middle school athletics festival, standing in front of their university’s sign the first day of classes. “Yeah, sorry to just spring this on you. I just barely made the deadline, and I didn’t think I was gonna get picked.”

Oikawa doesn’t reply. When Hajime looks back at him, he’s staring at the floor. His hair’s short enough now that Hajime can see his eyes, and they aren’t glistening wet, the way they were the first time Hajime broke his heart. The blankness he sees there is infinitely worse.

“So are you staying here? Paying the rent by yourself’ll be pretty steep.”

After another moment of tense silence, Oikawa shakes his head dully. “No, I…I guess I could ask one of the guys on the team if they’re looking for a roommate.” He looks up. “I won’t stay here.”

“Alright.”

The both of them go quiet.

“Are you…” Oikawa starts, then cuts himself off. He’s staring at the floor again. Hajime thinks about the ache in his eyes, the twisting of his heart, the pain of waking up in his bed, alone. He’s doing this for a reason. _This_ is the right path.

Ultimately, this is what will help him feel happy again.

“Am I what?”

“Nevermind.” Oikawa shakes his head, summoning up a pathetic excuse of a smile that wrenches Hajime’s gut. “I’m happy for you, Iwa-chan! You must be so excited.”

He’s not.

“Ah…yeah, I guess so.”

_I don’t wanna leave you._

“That’s great!” Oikawa stands, shutting his laptop as he does. He won’t meet Hajime’s eyes. “Well, Suzu-chan is expecting me, so I should get going. Let me know if you need help with anything.”

_I don’t want you to leave me._

“I…sure.”

He follows Oikawa out into the hallway, to the shoebox _—_ watches him pull on his overcoat and wrap his scarf snugly around his neck, neither saying a word.

Then Oikawa leaves, and he doesn’t say goodbye.

 

 

******

 

 

The month of December is quiet.

But it’s also very busy. He has to pack—he has to settle things with their landlord; has to pay the fee for terminating their lease early. He thinks Oikawa packs too, but it’s always with his door closed, or when Hajime isn’t home.

“Did you find someone to room with?” Hajime asks, two weeks from their expected moving date.

“Mmm.” Oikawa doesn’t look up from his magazine.

Hajime leaves it at that.

_This is for the best._

 

******

 

 

Oikawa spends both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day at Suzu’s, and Hajime spends both days alone.

 

 

 

******

 

 

The day before New Year’s is spent in a whirl of activity. The last of Hajime’s boxes get packed—the past five years of his life, when he thinks about it. All the college textbooks he highlighted to death, notes and notebooks he was convinced he’d eventually find a use for. His plates, silverware, mugs—all wrapped up in newspaper and safely tucked away in cardboard boxes. His parents come down in their car and almost everything is somehow able to be crammed into the backseat and trunk.

Oikawa’s fidgeting the entire morning and early afternoon, not staying in one spot for more than a minute at a time. He’ll sit at the couch, then stand, making the trip to the kitchen counter to lean against and watch Hajime work—then the next minute he’s in his room, door closed. Hajime will turn around and he’s suddenly sitting in the living room, on the floor facing the sliding glass door onto the balcony, knees pulled to his chest. Hajime has to pretend like he doesn’t know the reason—he has to pretend like nothing out of the ordinary is happening, otherwise he doesn’t think he’d be able to keep moving.

Eventually all he’s left with is a duffel of the last of his clothes, the rest of his stuff in his parent’s car currently booking it down the highway back to Sendai. The apartment looks much the same as it had before, except for the bareness of his room—Oikawa will be taking the couch and the kitchen furniture, the TV—either for his new apartment or destined for a storage unit, Hajime doesn’t know. He doesn’t think Oikawa will appreciate him asking.

The pictures are still on the fridge.

“Are you gonna take these?” Hajime asks. He doesn’t want them to somehow get left behind, because he meant what he said to Hanamaki, those months ago. They’re good pictures. Some group shots with Hanamaki and Matsukawa, blurry candids from parties usually courtesy of a wildly inebriated Bokuto. But most of them are selfies of just the two of them—Oikawa’s arm hooked around his neck, pulling their cheeks together with a blinding grin; peace signs and duck lips, Hajime’s face scowling to hide the smile underneath.

And then there’s the ones he can’t believe he got talked into. The ones where they’re kissing, eyes closed, lips caught in the slow motion of it all, Oikawa’s arm held out at an angle to take the picture. There’s one in particular Hajime’s fond of—his own eyes are closed, but Oikawa’s staring at the camera, his face screaming a smug sort of triumph.

At the question, Oikawa walks over from his spot leaning against the opposite wall, stopping next to Hajime in the kitchen. His eyes flicker over the collage of images, his face giving nothing away.

“I’ll take them. If that’s okay with you.”

It’s getting later in the afternoon, and he still has to walk himself to the station to catch the train home.

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

Careful fingers pluck off the magnets, first—cat shapes and aliens, old keepsakes from school trips in the shape of the Great Buddha or the Sky Tree. The pictures are removed as the magnets are collected, and Hajime watches, silently, as they’re gathered and set gently on the countertop. In no time at all there’s a stack set to the side, and the refrigerator is bare. It looks naked and unnatural, and Hajime is glad that he won’t have to look at it like this for much longer.

A glance at his watch tells him what he already knows. He needs to get going.

Hajime grabs his lone bag and heads over to the front door, Oikawa shuffling behind him. His heart is pounding and his feet feel like they’re sticking to the floor—because he really, really doesn’t want to leave, he never did, but this is ultimately for his sanity and he can’t fuck around in limbo like this anymore.

He turns around to face Oikawa, and he takes a deep breath. “Well—"

“I won’t ask you to stay,” Oikawa interrupts him, in a panicked sort of whisper, “because even for me, that’d be horribly selfish.” Hajime's mouth clicks shut, and his chest lurches painfully. He wants to tell him he’s anything  _but_ selfish—he gives and gives until he doesn’t have anything left. “But there is one thing I want that I don’t think will cost you very much.”

“What is it?” It comes out less of a demand and more of a gentle question. Oikawa’s chin is trembling. Hajime reaches out, ignoring the voice telling him not to, and sets a hand on the juncture of his neck and shoulder—his thumb strokes there soothingly, just below his ear, and Oikawa relaxes the smallest bit, letting out a shaky breath as he does.

“I want a goodbye kiss. One for the road.”

Hajime’s thumb pauses its ministrations as the bottom of his stomach drops out, and Oikawa looks down at him like he’s ready to duck out of the way of a fist—he’s chewing on his bottom lip, eyebrows drawn together. Eyes glassy and red-rimmed. Hajime suddenly feels the pain like it’s his own—he feels like he’s been hit by a truck, the way his lungs refuse to work. He swallows, throat working over the thump there. His eyes flicker down to Oikawa’s bottom lip, being chewed to pieces. The thumb on Oikawa’s neck finds its way there, pressing into the soft plush—coaxing it away from his teeth. He can feel the warm breath across his knuckles.

Glancing up, Oikawa’s staring at him like… _like Hanamaki looks at creampuffs,_ his brain supplies helpfully.  _No,_ he shoots back. This is the look of someone who will, for the first time, be more than an hour’s train ride away from their best friend—it would be unfair, to project Hajime’s own yearning somewhere it doesn't belong. Oikawa doesn’t get attached easily, but when he does he has trouble letting go. It’s as simple as that. Even though that part of their relationship is over, they’re still best friends. Always have been. And if Hajime has any say in the matter, they always will be. This will be a big change for both of them. Hajime feels the impending separation just as strongly, and it hurts. It does.

That’s all this is—a way to make the hurt go away, at least for a moment.  

“What about Suzu?” He feels the need to remind him—this will come at a cost. Oikawa needs to be aware of it. How unfair this will be for her.

He’s already shaking his head, eyelashes fluttering. “I know. I know. I’ll deal with it. Just…once. Please.”

“You can’t come back from this,” Hajime murmurs—they’re so close, he could count the freckles dotting the bridge of Oikawa’s nose.  _ **We** can’t come back from this._

“I won’t want to.”

It’s only been six months since the last time they kissed, but this one still feels like the first one, sitting below the massive rhododendron tree in the neighborhood park four years ago. It still feels like Oikawa’s pulling every last bit of Hajime into this kiss—dragging him in, deeper, deeper than he ever planned to go. Addictive, the way it was never supposed to be. It’s not firm, nor confident—a soft, tentative press of lips, forming a question. A request.  _Please, don’t leave me._ Hajime backs Oikawa into the wall, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth— _I’m sorry._

He can taste salt, can feel it when the drops run across the bridge of his own nose, pressed against Oikawa’s cheek. He keeps kissing him, keeps kissing him even when Oikawa’s breath starts hitching, when his whole body trembles, when the hands bunch into his shirt at the back, clinging.

Hajime lets his hands run through Oikawa’s hair once, twice—as he pulls away, lips burning and unsatisfied, he lets his lingering fingers go through Oikawa’s bangs, pushing them into a more orderly sweep across his forehead. Fingertips dust over closed eyelids—wet warmth on the pads of Hajime’s fingers. He wipes underneath with gentle care; he thinks this is truly the last time. He wants to savor it.

“I gotta go now,” Hajime whispers. His train leaves in half an hour—it’ll be a close call already. He doesn’t want to go, but he’s already taken advantage of Oikawa enough for a lifetime’s worth of guilt. Any more, and he won’t be able to live with himself.

Oikawa nods, still with his eyes closed. “Say my name,” he breathes. Hajime doesn’t have to ask what he means. He’s always been able to just  _know._ Like they were two halves of one whole.

That was the part that had always scared him the most.

“See you later, Tooru.”

“Bye, Hajime.”

Hajime picks up his bag, and Oikawa’s still standing in the hallway, eyes closed, when he shuts the door behind him.

 

 

******

 

 

From Hajime’s childhood bed, he can clearly see the shallow dent in the middle of his door, about two and a half feet off the ground. It’s a very slight depression, barely noticeable unless you knew where to look for it, and only if the light was filtering in from the window just so. It belongs to a blurry sort of memory, being one of his first—one he’d think he’d have made up if not for the physical evidence right there in front of him. Oikawa, two years old, screaming and bald, running head-first into the door. The subsequent meltdown. Hajime’s mother rocking him on the floor, trying to get him to stop crying. 

“Why doesn’t Hajime kiss it to make it better? Hajime, won’t you kiss Tooru’s forehead to make the boo-boo go away?”

It wasn’t so much a kiss as Hajime more-or-less headbutting him, his mouth coming in some kind of contact with the reddened bump. But he remembers Oikawa staring up at him afterwards, wet eyes astonished, and he reached up to touch where Hajime had.

“See? It’s like magic, isn’t it, Tooru? You feel all better now, huh?”

Hajime stares at that dent from his bed, thinking about all the years after that, all the things that happened in this very room. The playdates, day after day, year after year—homework, sheets of paper spread out all over the floor. Bumping a volleyball back and forth until Hajime had hit it too high and broke the light fixture, and henceforth being banned from playing volleyball in the house. Having sleepovers every weekend. Entering high school, and figuring out in his third year exactly why his chest hurt sometimes when he was around Oikawa. Realizing that he made Oikawa’s chest hurt just as much. The two of them laying together on this very bed, the air hot between them and panting into each other’s mouths, but more often than that quietly holding each other, talking about what their futures held.

He rolls over onto his other side, towards the wall. He thinks about Suzu, how she looks at Oikawa like she’s so unbearably fond of him—not the doe-like, stars-in-their-eyes look the others have had. She doesn’t idolize him, and that alone had won Hajime over. She’s a good girl—like Hajime, she’s never put up with any of Oikawa’s shit. She doesn’t let him get away with anything. He’s always needed someone to keep him grounded, either when he’s flying too high or sinking too low.

 _You can’t be that person for him anymore,_ Hajime reminds himself firmly.  _You made your choice, now you need to live with it._ In the very least, there’s finally a tangible distance between them now. It will be leagues easier, not having to see him every day. Not groggily eating breakfast together in the morning, not brushing their teeth side-by-side. Not sleeping together— _Jesus, what had he been thinking?_ But it’ll be okay. He’ll be able to get past this completely. He couldn’t be the only one still hanging onto something so broken and worn thin. He needed to be strong, too.

For both their sakes.

 

 ******

 

 

It’s because they’re both so busy that they don’t have time to talk much. Between Hajime ferrying himself from his internship clinic and home again, finding time to eat meals and sleep, he’s spread thin enough as it is. He barely has time to see Hanamaki and Matsukawa, who live five minutes away on foot. He doesn’t have the luxury of making the trip all the way to Tokyo whenever he feels like it—the weekends are reserved for catching up on sleep, sorely needed after the exhausting work week. And who has the motivation to talk on the phone anymore? Texting is easier. Even though they don’t do much of that, either. Sometimes Oikawa will message him asking how he’s holding up, and he’ll reply in kind—but it never really goes past that. Which is completely normal, considering their busy lives. It doesn’t bother Hajime in the least.

Not at all.

The burning feeling he gets in his chest late at night is heartburn, simple as that. He refuses to look at the dent in his door—there’s just no reason to be so needlessly nostalgic. He’s an adult now. He needs to start acting like it.

He doesn’t think about the kiss.

(Really, he doesn’t.)

 

 

******

 

 

“How’s Tooru doing nowadays?” Hajime’s father asks, smiling across the table during an early-morning breakfast.

“Fine,” he replies.

In all honesty, he really doesn’t know.

 

******

 

 

It’s late February when his phone lights up with an unknown number.

Hajime debates picking up or not—if it’s someone that really wants to talk to him, they can just leave a voicemail and he can listen to it later. But it’s the Tokyo area code—what if it’s Oikawa, calling from a stranger’s phone with an emergency? He’d never forgive himself if he didn’t answer when he had the chance and something terrible happened because of it.

He picks up.

“Iwaizumi? This is Iwaizumi, right?” The voice is scarily deep, the words spoken with perfect courtesy, syllables smooth and careful. Something about it is eerily familiar, but he can’t put his finger on why.

“Uh, yeah. Who’s this.”

“This is Ushijima Wakatoshi. We played volleyball against each other in high school.”

As if he needed the reminder. “What the fu—"

“Is Oikawa with you? He hasn’t been back in more than a day and I’m slightly concerned.”

“Oikawa? The fuck you need to know?” He needs to cool it with the hostility, he knows, but old habits die hard and just listening to his damned _voice—_

“We became roommates at the beginning of the year. My apologies—I assumed you’d have been aware. Regardless, do you know where he is? I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning.”

That has Hajime pause. His mind is foggy with the remnants of the red haze of competition, every memory of the old rivalry leaping to the surface. But he forces himself to focus on the conversation, knowing it’s important. 

“I—you. What? He _lives_ with you? You. Ushijima Wakatoshi.”

“That is my name, yes.”

“ _Why?”_

The naïve confusion is tangible, even over the phone. “I don’t understand the question. You moved back to your hometown. He needed a roommate and so did I. I think that it's fairly self-explanatory.”

Okay, sure, he _guesses_ that is makes sense, but he’s still having trouble wrapping his head around the fact that apparently Oikawa Tooru chose to live under the same roof as his sworn enemy out of his own free will.

“How’d you get my number?”

“I insisted that we both write down several contacts in the case of an emergency. You were the first.”

That’s—

“He wrote me down as an emergency contact? What about his parents?”

“Yes, they’re here as well. But as I said, you’re listed first. And I didn’t want to worry his parents needlessly—to be honest, I assumed he’d be with you. I’m guessing he’s not.”

Hajime sits down harshly on his bed, bringing a hand up to rub at his eyes— _damn it, damn it, Oikawa—_

“If he’s not with me and he’s not with you, then he’s still fuckin’ missing.”

Ushijima hums. “That is correct.”

“He didn’t leave you a note or anything? Don’t you guys keep track of each other?”

“For the most part, Oikawa chooses to keep to himself. We don’t often speak when it’s unnecessary.”

Hajime groans. “Go figure.”

“The last I saw him he was leaving for the gym, which was yesterday in the late morning. Perhaps ten o'clock. He might have come back after that, but I wasn't home for most of the day.”

“And you’re sure he didn’t say anything else to you?”

Ushijima grunts in what must be some form of indignation. “I would have remembered.”

Hajime sighs. “Okay. Okay. Thanks. For letting me know. I’m gonna call around a few places. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“Please do. Have a good evening. Goodbye.”

“Bye.”

Hajime hangs up, refusing to let anything resembling panic start worming its way into his belly. It’s fine. It’s totally fine—Oikawa was probably just at Suzu’s, and spent the night, and being an inconsiderate asshole he didn’t think to tell anybody where he’d be. It’s classic Oikawa. He’d always pull these types of shitty stunts, as far back as Hajime could remember—in elementary school, it was disappearing from his bed in the middle of the night so that he could star-gaze in the big open field behind the recreation center. In high school, it was the long hours he’d spend off the radar, pushing himself in the gym until some lovestruck _idiot_ came to pick him up.

A quick attempt at calling Oikawa is about as fruitful as he expected: meaning, no answer. Whether he's out of service or just plain ignoring the calls, he doesn't know. Which leaves him with one more option. Suzu. He has to be with Suzu, right? Probably sleeping or watching documentaries or having sex and utterly oblivious of the time. Hajime fumbles through his contacts, and he’s glad not for the first time that Suzu is such a pleasant person in general, because she’s the only girlfriend he’s bothered to have her number saved under an actual name. She’s more reliable than Hajime can say for Oikawa right now, for sure. He holds the phone back to his ear, waiting impatiently as the dial tone rings, and rings, and rings…

“Hellooo, this is Ichigawa Suzu’s cell phone.”

It’s a girl’s voice, but it’s decidedly _not_ the person he wants to talk to. Hajime growls in frustration. “Why isn’t _Ichigawa Suzu_ answering her own damn phone.”

“She’s in the shower. This is her sister.”

His fingers find the bridge of his nose this time, pinching down as he tries to keep his waning patience in check. “I’m looking for Oikawa, Suzu’s boyfriend. Is he there? I need to talk to him and he’s not picking up his phone.”

She hums, sounding thoughtful. “Oikawa? You mean the really hot volleyball player?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

She takes her time replying, dragging out each of her words until they're needlessly long. “Wellllll, he’s not here. They broke up, like, forever ago. It’s been at least a few months. I think...October? Yeah, around then.”

Hajime’s already shaking his head before she even finishes. “No, that can’t be right.” They were still dating when Hajime left, in late December.

He hears the snap of gum over the phone. “No, honey, I remember, cause she got with Katsuya a few days after Halloween. And they’ve been steady for a while now.”

Hajime sits there, dead silent and utterly still. He doesn’t know if he’s breathing.

She continues talking like his input is unnecessary. “But he still comes over all the time to hang with Katsuya and Suzu, so you could try here again some other time, if you want.”

He doesn't even register that he'd started pacing until he bangs his pinky toe on his dresser, making him swear. He talks over her responding concern, loud enough to block it out completely. “Uh. Sure. Thanks. Bye.” And he hangs up without waiting for a reply.

His head is now an absolute swarm of questions, one piled on top of each other. What did she _mean?_ She must have been misinformed, because Suzu had been hanging out at their place at least once a week nearly up until the day they moved. They had still been very much _together._

But more importantly, Hajime still doesn’t have his key question answered. _Where the fuck is Oikawa?_ He thumps his head angrily against the wall opposite his bed, looking up at his ceiling like miraculously the answer will be carved there. When did his life become a Nancy Drew novel?

Maybe the constant motion had finally gotten to Oikawa’s bad knee and he was collapsed somewhere, stuck, without cellphone service. What if he was kidnapped? He was good-looking and famous, well-loved—his ransom money would fetch someone a high price. Or maybe he was just dead in a ditch somewhere. The mere thought has horrified shivers running up and down his back.

Hajime’s mom chooses that moment to nudge the door open, laundry basket balanced on her other hip. He glances over as she strides inside, settling the basket over his unmade bedsheets and beginning to unload stacks of folded underwear and t-shirts. She looks at him, frowning in a confused sort of way, and at first he thinks it's because he's standing with his head banging against the wall, but it turns out not to be the case.

“Honey, why didn’t you tell me Tooru-kun was home? I would have invited him over for dinner.”

He straightens. “What?”

“Didn’t you know? Oh, I bet it was supposed to be a surprise! I’m sorry.” She guiltily covers her mouth with her hand. “I didn’t even consider that—oh, now it’s ruined.”

Hajime walks over, plopping himself on his bed and leaning towards her. “Oikawa’s home?”

She purses her lips, patting absently at a pile of his dad’s white work shirts. “Well…I guess it’s fine, as long as you pretend to be surprised, okay? You know how Tooru-kun gets excited over these things.”

“ _Mom.”_

She flaps a hand at him, rolling her eyes. “Okay, okay, don’t get all fussy—I heard this morning from Ai-san. I ran into her at the supermarket. She let it slip, so I assumed you already knew.”

Not kidnapped, not dead in a ditch, just—home. Without letting anyone know, he’s home. Right down the street.

If Hajime weren’t so relieved he’d be pretty fuckin’ pissed.

She hikes the basket back onto her hip, leaving the clothes to put away for himself. As if her insisting to do his laundry is less embarrassing that way. “Anyways, I’m happy for her. I know she’s missed having her baby home. Not everyone can be as lucky as me, having my big man back in the house.” She grins, and balances on one leg to kick gently at his knee.

“I…I guess I’ll go see him, then,” Hajime mumbles, absently thinking that he should text Ushijima the news, so that he doesn’t call the police or something equally horrific.

“Please do! And let him know that he’s welcome here anytime.” She hesitates for a moment. “And…and Hajime?”

He looks up. She squints her eyes, a nervous habit.

“Whatever it is…that’s going on between you two. You can get through it. I know you can.”

Hajime stares, and looks down at his lap. His hands are clenched into fists.

“We’ll see about that.”

 

 

******

 

 

It’s February and they shouldn’t have to worry about snow past Valentine’s Day. The past few weeks have been unseasonably warm, and for a while it was looking like they were in the clear for an early spring. But whoever’s in charge of weather must have gotten bored, or maybe they just wanted to fuck with everybody, because it’s nearly March and now they have a fresh few inches of February snow.

It’s not like Hajime hates it. In fact, he likes it. He does. But when it’s been consistently cold from October all the way until the end of January, admittedly he was looking forward to wearing less layers and not feeling the cold hit him like a ton of bricks every time he steps outside. But that’s just how the year has been for him, he supposes. The weather should keep consistently sucky with everything else.

Such as: Oikawa isn’t home.

He tries there first, obviously. Armed with a down parka zipped tight, gloved hands and a scarf wrapped up to his chin; the house is right down the street, a minute walk if he really drags his feet. Oikawa’s mom answers, hugging Hajime to her chest as a greeting, before regretfully telling him that her son left on a run earlier in the afternoon and hasn’t returned.

“I told him it was crazy to try and run with the snow. What if he slips and cracks his silly head open?” she sighs. She doesn’t seem truly worried, which gives Hajime a small bit of comfort.

“I can tell him you stopped by, if you want. Or you can go look for him.”

Hajime glances down the white street, a small trench carved into the sidewalk by a small herd of footprints. He doesn’t know why he’s putting in so much effort to track him down—it’s not like they’ve been talking regularly. Just because he’s home now, it doesn’t mean that all of a sudden Hajime has permission to reach out. He should just leave him be.

And yet.

A hand gently touches his shoulder. “I’ve missed hearing about you, Hajime-kun.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s all Hajime has to offer.

 

 

******

 

 

Of course it’s the park.

Hajime’s boots crunch in the snow, his eyes trailing over the footprints just beside his own. The prints are spaced farther apart—taken at a run.

Oikawa's sitting on the slide, at the bottom. He’d cleared it of snow and has sat on the hard green plastic like a bench, knees spread and elbows propped on either, beanie on his head and looking down at his feet. His breath clouds in front of him, no longer quickened from exercise. It’s a normal, steady intake, and for some reason Hajime finds himself watching that cloud of vapor as he approaches, the tangible proof of Oikawa’s breath an unexplainable comfort.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were home.”

He doesn’t startle at Hajime’s words, the noise of his approach easily detected even though he’d been presumably lost in his thoughts. His eyes drift close, and his head tilts back, lifting his face towards the clouded sky. The ghost of a smile on his lips is hollow.  “I don’t remember making you my keeper, Iwa-chan.” His voice is quiet and subdued, but it still makes a resonating pang hit Hajime right in the center of his chest—he hasn’t heard that voice in _weeks._

Hajime shakes his head, gloved hand coming to press at the middle of his ribcage. He tries to force some irritation into his own voice, even when all he feels is _relief,_ like a parched man finally getting that glass of water he’d been dying for. (His eyes drink up what he’d been missing all this time, even though he tells himself not to). “Knock it off with the bullshit, Oikawa. Why didn’t you tell me Suzu broke up with you?”

His eyes open again, expression carefully thoughtful. He still hasn’t looked at Hajime. “Well…I was feeling very vulnerable, and sad, so you can imagine that I wasn’t exactly in the mood for sharing.”

“Oh, so that’s why she kept coming over to our apartment,  _months_ after you broke up?”

Finally, he looks. Head whipping to gawk at Hajime, face twitching with surprise, eyes flashing. The expression is shuttered again before Hajime knows it, but it’s as much proof as he needs—it’s true, then. They haven’t been dating for a long time. Which doesn’t explain why she’s been hanging around as much as she has, doesn’t explain the hugs and hand holding and soft kisses pressed to cheeks.

Oikawa turns back away to stare at his feet. His knee bounces anxiously, and Hajime takes another step forward. “What were you trying to pull? You really didn’t strike me as the desperate type.”

So abruptly that Hajime flinches, Oikawa stands, his lip curling. “I’m not _desperate!_ ”

“Then  _why?_ I don’t understand why you’d lie about something like that! And now you’re rooming with  _Ushijima?_  Who is apparently worried sick about you, by the way.”

Oikawa's cheeks are dangerously pink, with frustration and with the blood from his run still pooled under the surface of his skin. He glares at Hajime, breathing hard, before he turns to step away and his running shoes sink into the fine powder, a rhythmic crystalline crunch.

“Don’t walk away from me.”

Hajime follows after immediately, all the way to the edge of the playground, to where the surrounding stand of trees begins, where the hydrangea bushes and the rhododendron tree— _that_ rhododendron tree—sits. He can practically hear the ghost of Oikawa’s laugh, the fine snow replaced on his lips instead of that first real kiss.

Oikawa drops down onto all fours, and he begins crawling on the snow-covered ground, intent on disappearing underneath the tree. With a barely suppressed sigh, Hajime trails after him—he ducks as low as he can to avoid getting the knees of his jeans wet, but in the end he’s just too tall. He traces Oikawa’s path on his hands and knees, bare skin of his palms burning with the cold of the snow. The low-hanging branches catch at his hair; pull at the back of his parka. Oikawa’s curled up by the trunk, arms wrapped around his knees that are pulled to his chest, nose buried in the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He doesn’t move when Hajime takes a seat next to him.

Hajime spreads out his legs in front of him, accepting that his ass is going to be soaked and freezing all the way down to his boxers. He sighs again, settling his head back against the trunk and looking ahead—frozen droplets are clinging to the branches, dripping as they melt. “I just wanna know what the fuck is going on, Oikawa. Tell me.”

He stays quiet, further buries his face until all that’s visible is the very edge of his flushed jaw. Hajime waits, patiently.

“Suzu broke up with me because of those pictures on the fridge,” Oikawa eventually says, voice cracking. Hajime sucks in a breath, remembering a conversation with Hanamaki from a lifetime ago. “She asked me to take them down, and I wouldn’t. So she broke up with me. Honestly, I…I wasn’t even _sad_.”

His mouth, having been muffled into fabric, comes better into focus as he lifts his face to set his chin on his arms. “But I still like her, just…not like that. I never did.” He swallows, taking a shaky sort of breath. “But she’s a great girl. And she _gets_ me. So I asked her if she’d mind if we just…pretended, for a little bit longer. As a favor between friends.” His eyes are wet now. “It started in October.”

Hajime can’t wrap his head around what he’s hearing. It makes about as much sense as Oikawa telling him he was dropping a promising volleyball career to swallow swords in a traveling circus. “Why would you _do_ that?”

He laughs, self-deprecating and sour. “I thought…I don’t  _know,_ I thought if I just kept rubbing her in your face you’d—you’d get  _jealous,_ or something. Which is idiotic, you don’t have to tell me. You never get jealous. You’re always  _perfect,”_ Oikawa spits, bitterly, and Hajime’s stomach flips.

“Why did you…?” He can’t even finish.

“Really, Iwa-chan? I have to spell this out for you?” He rolls his eyes. “I’ve loved you since I was fifteen and not a day has gone by since that I haven’t.”

His heart has taken to pounding, painfully, in the back of his throat, making it hard to breathe. He can’t remember a time he felt so out-of-body. This entire time—a whole half-year, every moment Oikawa was with someone else, every kiss on someone else’s lips, every touch and softly spoken word—

“You still love me?”

A sad little smile. “Never stopped.”

Hajime is reminded, brutally, of weeds in his garden. He remembers feeding the ducks and hating himself so much he never wanted to be someone else more.

He exhales, more hot fog to melt the ice, and he presses a hand to his mouth. He closes his eyes. “Don’t do this. We can’t go through this again.”

“What was so bad about the first time around? Please, tell me. I went along with it because it was what you wanted, but—" he laughs again, bleakly, “I didn’t  _get it._ Why? Was being with me really so awful?”

“No.”

It was the opposite of awful. It was the most _wonderful._

Which was exactly why it had to stop.

Oikawa twists to the side, hand shooting out to grip Hajime’s wrist and rip it away from his mouth. He leans in, eyes fiery anger, chin trembling with it. “Then tell me why I have to live without my best friend when I know he loves me too.”

Of course, of course, _of course_ he knows. How could he not? How could anyone with two eyes see Hajime as anything other than utterly helpless? So thoroughly _gone_. And he never even had the choice—from the moment they met, from the moment that toothless, gummy mouth smiled at him, fresh and untouched by the world—

He never stood a chance.

“I’m not wrong, am I?” 

Hajime shakes his head numbly. “You’re not wrong.”

Oikawa’s fingers, damp with sweat and icy cold, are wrapped around Hajime’s pulse point. Hajime wonders if he can feel the jackrabbit kick of his beating heart. “I’m…” He licks his lips. “I needed to learn how to live without you.”

The fingers slacken, and slowly let go. Hajime finds himself longing for their return. Oikawa’s staring at him, brows pinched and mouth turned down in a confused frown. “Why? I’m not dying any time soon.” And then, as if Hajime had spoken out loud, his eyes widen with sudden realization. “You got scared.” His voice is soft, and careful, but Hajime still flinches like it had been a shout.

Fear.

That someday Hajime would lose all of it. The laughter, the friendship, the devotion. It was selfish and shitty and absolutely unfair. But still, it was better, to have some control over the loss. To have some say over when and where he had to say goodbye.

Neither of them speak for a long moment.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa eventually says, “I think you’re confusing a couple of things.”  

Hajime startles at the bossy quality to his voice, as if this whole situation is somehow _funny._ There’s something at the edges of his mouth, not quite a smile, but like some sort of prelude to what could become one. Cold, cold fingers are back at Hajime’s wrist, but never has the skin there felt warmer. “ _Needing_ me, versus _wanting_ me. You’re scared of  _needing_ to be with me.” It’s said as fact, and Hajime can’t even find the will to deny what’s so obviously true before Oikawa barrels on without waiting for a response. “But you  _don’t._ You never will. And I don’t  _need_ to be with you. But,” he tugs Hajime’s wrist, leaning closer, and presses the frozen fingers against his own cheek. He nuzzles into Hajime’s palm, Hajime feeling salty grains of dried sweat against the pads of his fingers. Oikawa looks at him, tenderly. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be.”

He moves his face, his breath billowing across Hajime’s palm now. Hajime doesn’t move as a lonely kiss is placed in the center, nor as words are breathed against it. “I want you because you’re my best friend. You make me happy even though you’re mean to me sometimes. We’re our own people, Iwa-chan. We don’t complete each other. And that’s fine, because there’s no part of you that’s missing. And I want to be with you because I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone.”

A small, broken sound comes up Hajime’s throat, and he clamps down on it desperately. His eyes are burning and Oikawa’s looking at him like he’s hung the moon—it still scares him, but the swooping feeling in his chest outweighs the fear. Because he _wants this._ He’ll live with the fear, and face it—but he doesn’t have to do it alone. Which is why he doesn’t let himself shy away when Oikawa lowers his hand, and leans into him.

This kiss isn’t a reprieve from pain. It’s Oikawa’s hands gripping at the small of Hajime’s back, to tug him closer. It’s Hajime feeling his icy nose defrost from the heat of Oikawa’s breath. It’s achingly sweet, firmer and less coordinated than the last—his lips touch teeth, again and again, because Oikawa won’t stop smiling. They’re kissing underneath the rhododendron tree again, this time its waxy green leaves coated in a fine layer of snow, absent of the vibrant magenta blooms that will grow in the coming spring. The only ache in his chest comes from how hard his heart is beating against his ribcage, from the butterflies in his stomach. He feels like he’s fifteen and in love for the first time again, but for all the world he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t open his eyes when Oikawa pulls away—he can hear his pulse loud in his ears, and his lips feel pleasant but still unsatisfied—will they ever be? Will it ever feel like it’s enough? He feels a warm hand brush a flake of snow from his eyebrow, trailing a burning pathway down his arm, stilling near his wrist again—Hajime flips his hand over, and fingers immediately intertwine with his.

“Hajime.”

He starts a little at the sound of his name, opening his eyes and tilting his chin up wordlessly.  _How did I ever think he didn’t look at me differently?_ Oikawa’s smiling, his cheeks glowing bright and rosy, the pink flush extending down his neck.  “Will you—"

“Will you go out with me? Again?” Hajime interjects quickly, beating him to the punch.

Oikawa clucks his tongue, but his lips quirk up in a smug grin. “Iwa-chan, this isn’t a competition, you know.”

Hajime’s face is on fire—he thinks the tips of his ears are melting. “I just…I needed to be the one to ask. So?” he swallows, anxiously. "Will you?"

Oikawa sighs, leans in and presses a quick kiss to Hajime’s burning cheek. “Of course, my lovable idiot.”

 

 

******

 

 

The year living apart goes by uneventfully.

That is to say, it’s not _boring._ Not by a long shot. But it’s comfortable, and even though they aren’t living together it’s one of the happiest of Hajime’s life. Because working at the clinic isn’t bad at all now that he texts Oikawa during his lunch breaks, when he knows an hour-long phone call is waiting for him at home.

He thinks that Oikawa feels the same way. He’s sticking his lease out with Ushijima, who against all Hajime’s expectations is…a good guy. He’s welcoming, and a good roommate. He _cares,_ which Hajime can attest to first-hand. He’s clean and a good baker—his specialties are cheesecakes and jam-filled shortbread cookies, always preparing enough for everyone when Hajime comes to visit every other weekend. Blunt and oblivious, but also considerate, especially when the two of them want alone time. It’s shocking, because Hajime had never expected in a million years that he could ever grow to be  _fond_ of his old rival, but that’s exactly what happens—those joyous weekends in Tokyo, he and Oikawa always make sure to invite him when it’s a simple movie on the living room couch; when they cook together, they make sure that there’s enough for three. Hajime wants to say that it’s freaky and weird and disturbing (he remembers, all too well, more than one breakdown in high school, _that damned Ushiwaka_ spitting from Oikawa's bitter mouth). But the fact of the matter is that it’s not weird at all, it’s _nice,_ and he realizes that it’s because all of them, against all odds, have grown up.

To his relief, Suzu stays a part of Oikawa’s life, because Oikawa can’t have just one friend in Tokyo who he can talk to when he needs someone. (Ushijima is a good listener, but his advice can sometimes be a little off-kilter.) She continues to be a support for him, for both of them, and in another strange twist Hajime has found himself on double-dates, Suzu and Katsuya across from them, hands held under the table.

And while it’s nice and all, and he enjoys his parents’ happiness having him in Sendai again, and he enjoys seeing Matsukawa and Hanamaki and other hometown-friends on a regular basis—nothing can compare to his excitement when it’s finally time to start apartment hunting in Tokyo again. The following November, the end of his internship in sight, he and Oikawa begin e-mailing each other promising listings, going over must-haves and absolutely-nots, all while keeping in mind their excessively limited budget.

Before they know it, they’re ringing in the New Year again, together. They visit a shrine and draw good fortunes. The first weeks of January are spent preparing for the three long years of graduate school Hajime has in front of him, the two of them digging old furniture out of the storage unit in Tokyo. Finally, it’s time for Hajime to hug his parents goodbye (again), for Oikawa to give Ushijima an overly-firm handshake and thump on the back, and finally, _finally—_

“Matsukawa and Hanamaki will want to throw us an apartment-warming party. “

The place has a strict no-smoking policy, but the very carpet is saturated in what is undoubtedly cigarette smoke. The woman who lives below them owns a very unhappy, very vocal cat. The train station is two blocks away, the school a fifteen minute ride. Oikawa’s professional gym is close enough to walk to in ten. There’s one bedroom, one bathroom, and their stuff barely fits.

It’s theirs, and it’s perfect.

Oikawa flashes him a cheesy grin. “I would hope so! I expect bouncy castles, Iwa-chan. A magic show. Gift bags. National press coverage.”

“You’ll have to take that up with the party planners.”

The futon is soft and warm, bracing against the cold outside. Hajime hikes up the thick comforter over their shoulders, huddling closer and slipping his knee between both of Oikawa’s. The refrigerator consistently makes a loud humming sound, audible even with the wall between them. The surface is plastered with pictures, old and new. But they’ve left space, for the ones that have yet to be taken.

“I missed sharing a bed with you, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa breathes, snuggling up close and tucking his head under Hajime’s chin. Hajime wraps his arms around him, begins doodling aimless shapes and letters against Oikawa’s back, and Oikawa completely melts. He might even be purring, but Hajime doesn’t say anything.

“I missed it, too,” he murmurs, looking around them at their small bedroom. Even when they fold the futon back up, there will be room for little else—maybe another dresser, if the closet proves to be too small. But it’s more than enough for the two of them—close to what matters, and not so much money that they have to scrounge, week by week. It’s perfect, except—“What color d’you wanna paint it? The white’s getting on my nerves.”

Oikawa looks around them. “This room?”

“Yeah.”

He rests a hand against his cheek thoughtfully. “How about yellow?”

Hajime pulls a face. “Gross.”

“No, no, not like…pee-yellow. Soft yellow, like buttercups. That way, even when it’s raining outside we’ll always have a little bit of sunshine.”

Hajime imagines waking up every morning from tomorrow onward—Oikawa beside him, drool streaked across his cheeks, eyelashes fluttering as he dreams. He imagines leaning over and pressing a kiss to his forehead, right where that first kiss had gone when they were two. He imagines Oikawa waking up; a slow, arduous process—and then the first glimpse of warm chocolate brown, the glimmer of a sleepy little smile, a softly whispered, “ _Good morning, Hajime_.”

He imagines all of this in the warmth of a small yellow room, and he buries his face into Oikawa’s hair. It smells like home.

“Sounds like a plan.”

**Author's Note:**

> holy hECK this is so long?? i started this sucker last November im p sure, and im only now finishing it MAN it was a labor of love. it was one of those things where i'd write a bit, and then ignore for weeks on end. finally i got tired of it just sitting there all lonely so i decided to just GET IT DONE. This is what I get for starting new projects before I finish old ones. Anyway, one of these days i'll write an angsty iwaoi fic that doesnt involve one (or both) of them getting wasted. one day.
> 
> my thoughts after writing this: damn...katsuya must be a real chill dude...like REAL chill...
> 
> please come talk to me at [tumblr dot com](http://ohhotlamb.tumblr.com/)!!! love dat shit


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